


the lark ascending

by ohhotlamb



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, Ballet, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, Musical Instruments, Performing Arts University, daichi is a pianist, suga is a ballet dancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 09:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6417427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhotlamb/pseuds/ohhotlamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, Suga,” Daichi says, Koushi quirking his lips at the immediate nickname, “with legs like those, there’s no way you’re not a dancer. Ballroom?”</p><p>“Ballet,” Koushi corrects gently. He doesn’t ask why Daichi had been looking at his legs. He wants him to look some more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the lark ascending

**Author's Note:**

> this was written as a gift to [shadowhy](https://shadowhy.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! thank you so much for humoring me and giving me this suggestion, I had a lot of fun with it (probably too much fun, but, ya know, whatever)
> 
> [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQoP9iLwoos) is the song that Suga dances to

The hallway is completely empty, but Koushi doesn’t feel alone.

There’s a sound carried on the dust motes, gently brushing Koushi’s hair away from his ears. It sounds like sunlight dappling through tree branches on a hot summer’s day, like golden rays and every pure thing Koushi can think of. He feels his dancer’s feet itch—the music thrums down to the tips of his toes, to the marrow of his bones, makes the strong muscles of his thighs twitch. But he’s an adult, and a well-disciplined one at that—he refuses to be caught twirling about a deserted hallway at sundown, like a fairy transfixed under the spell of moonlight. So he settles for the next best thing—he sneaks further down the hall, feet whisper-quiet on the floor, bag strap held tightly against his shoulder. He peeks through the ajar door at the very end—just out of curiosity, out of an insatiable need to see the person who reminds him why he chose this path, why he deliberately chose to destroy his own feet, toes ugly and callused and crooked in exchange for the beautiful way he balances on them like a feather on the head of a needle—in exchange for the bird-like flutter in his chest each and every time he leaps, and he thinks _this is what it feels like to fly._

It’s someone he’s seen before. Not altogether surprising—his school is small, a few thousand students at most. But they’ve never crossed paths before now; Koushi’s usually folding himself in half on the lower floors, the rooms for individual instrument practice higher up. He doesn’t know if a part of him had sensed the music, because what else could have called him here? At the time, he had just wanted a better view of the setting sky—salmon-pink, cream-orange and traces of lavender—he had wanted to lean his forearms against an open window and just sit, stare out until everything had gone dark. He hadn’t expected to become bewitched. He hadn’t expected to feel his heart beating so strongly in his chest, then his throat, then the very pads of his fingers. The way his lips part slightly, breath soft as he takes in the smell of the dated building (mildew and peeling paint, old wood scuffed by piano-benches and stained by the thousands of hours of sweat, falling from Koushi’s brow). As his eyes follow the path of deft fingers, he takes note of the state of the black and white; the piano isn’t one of those grand new ones. It’s old and wooden with yellowing keys, and there’s a certain echoing metallic quality after each note that hints at its age. It’s a wonderful instrument, well-loved, which is, in Koushi’s mind, the exact reason it’s so lovely.

The man’s eyes are closed, is what Koushi immediately finds so beautiful. His hands are big, with broad fingers—not pianist’s hands, but Koushi likes that he doesn’t fit into a mold. He’s not frowning, or smiling, or anything of the sort; his face is relaxed, almost like he’s asleep, and his body sways in tune with his hands, his shoulders rising and falling as he breathes, each one deep and filling.

Koushi must have made a noise—a dreamy sigh, or maybe his sleeve brushed a little too loudly against the material of his bag, because the next thing he knows he’s being stared at—the music hasn’t stopped, thank goodness, but eyebrows are being raised in a questioning sort of way, and Koushi feels the beginning of a blush staining his cheeks.

“I didn’t think anyone else was still here,” the man says, _still_ not looking at his hands—how many hours, how long it must have taken for this instrument to become so innate to him. Koushi doesn’t look away.

“I didn’t either. But I’m glad I didn’t. Leave, that is,” he replies, smiling as he lets himself in just a little bit more—pushes the door open so it’s not just his face peeping through like a perverted old man, but instead like the admirer he is.

“Oh?” The smile is teasing, charming in a way Koushi’s only seen in timeworn movies—like the keys he plays, he belongs in black and white, an old-fashioned kind of handsome that has Koushi reminding himself of the sweat that’s still drying on the back of his neck.

Koushi nods, leaning against the doorframe. “Otherwise I would have missed out. You sure know how to tickle those ivories,” he jokes with a flutter of his eyelashes, immediately biting his lip because he’s not one to usually flirt right out of the gate, but there’s just _something_ about _—_

The grin he gets in return is worth any sort of embarrassment he might have felt. “Sawamura Daichi,” the man offers without prompting—the tune he’s playing swells for a moment before transforming into something reminiscent of a lullaby, a soft background noise that must be made in consideration of their conversation.

_A strong name for strong hands._

“Sugawara Koushi.”

“Well, Suga,” Daichi says, Koushi quirking his lips at the immediate nickname, “with legs like those, there’s no way you’re not a dancer. Ballroom?”

“Ballet,” Koushi corrects gently. He doesn’t ask why Daichi had been looking at his legs. He wants him to look some more.

“Ballet,” Daichi echoes. He nods, like this makes complete sense. “Not an easy profession.”

“Neither is this,” Suga waves vaguely with his hand, and Daichi smiles.

“What’s that saying? Find something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life?”

“Something like that,” Koushi agrees easily; he finds himself migrating forward, past the shelter and comfort of the doorway until he’s leaning against the back of the piano, right across from Daichi. The vibrations tickle against his skin, goosebumps erupting in ripples across his back, the airs on his arms standing on end. He closes his eyes at Daichi’s inquiring stare, humming along and tapping his index finger against the wood—the beat is a lilting tempo, like ragtime or jazz, but something that could so easily become the classical art that flows through Koushi’s blood.

“You want to dance, don’t you?” Daichi says, quietly, like Koushi’s in the middle of something that shouldn’t be interrupted.

Koushi opens his eyes and smiles warmly. “I almost started dancing in the hallway, you know. You have no idea how hard it was not to.”

Daichi frowns at him, a very small one, not out of anger but of befuddlement. “Why don’t you?”

“Hmm?”

“If you want to dance, why don’t you? I won’t look.” As proof, he closes his eyes like before, not a single hitch in the notes, continuing as smoothly as if he were watching his hands with rapt attention. Koushi scoffs, leans over and pokes him in the middle of his forehead. Daichi opens his eyes again, grin back in place, and maybe it doesn’t matter that Koushi has salt crusted at his temples.

“I’m a _performer._ Do you honestly think one person watching would bother me?”

“Then what’s stopping you?” There’s a thinly concealed challenge there, and Koushi narrows his eyes—without another word he sets his bag down beside the piano, dropping down to sit on the floor as he takes out the pointe shoes he had just put away, still warm from the hours of practice. The room is big—meant to be a classroom, but all the chairs are piled up by the wall, the desks placed upside-down in the far corner. There’s no mirror, but Koushi doesn’t need one. He knows his form is flawless.

“Do you know _Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus_ _?_ _”_

“What, Vaughan Williams? Isn’t that meant to be for an orchestra?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, can you not handle it?” Koushi asks, sweetly, and Daichi cracks his knuckles with a determined set to his face.

“Let’s get going, Nutcracker.”

Koushi laughs, finishes lacing up his slippers and he stands again. He bends his legs experimentally—still warm and limber from the practice just minutes prior, and as the first notes are plucked out he steps with them. It’s slow, a waving sort of melody like water lapping at a shore. Ebbing and then building again, the music so effortlessly translated into black and white—a master’s work. It sounds as if there are two pianos, maybe three, like the pianist has more than two hands, and it's all from ear. When Koushi makes his first twirl he glances at Daichi—his eyes aren’t closed, this time, instead his gaze is placed steadily on Koushi. They share a long moment like that, time suspended, until Koushi turns away and switches his mind over.

 _Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus._  There’s an aching undercurrent; a song of sorrow and a song of triumph, and Koushi picks out every scrap of beauty. He leaps when it swells, arms liquid and gesturing, body folding in and out. He twirls, not a single quiver in his powerful legs when he stands on his toes. He makes great bounds across the room, all the while feeling Daichi’s eyes on him— _don’t look away. Watch me. Watch me, Daichi._

He doesn’t know how long it lasts—eventually, Daichi’s playing becomes quiet, almost like a cue, and Koushi stills—he didn’t realize how hard he’d been breathing, how fresh sweat had gathered at the hollow of his throat and drenched his neckline. He turns to meet Daichi’s eyes once more, smiles at the wonderment he sees there.

“You can dance _en pointe,”_ Daichi says, strangely breathless, and Koushi suddenly fights even harder to get ahold of his erratic lungs.

“I never saw why I shouldn’t.” He looks down at the arches of his feet and bones of his ankles, strong and unshakable after so many years of abuse. He had to work harder to compensate for his extra masculine weight, had to work until the pointe shoes made his feet blister and bleed, until he would be dreaming for days on end about standing on his tiptoes and twirling, arms above his head like he’s beckoning to the gods.

Daichi doesn’t disagree. But he stops playing, finishing on an odd note that indicates an unfinished ending. Koushi reaches up to wipe the moisture from his upper lip, and he looks out the window. It’s dark, the sun below the distant hills, the sky now a deep indigo. He feels so alive he doesn’t know what to do with himself; how to hold his hands, how to stand like he doesn’t feel like he’s about to float away.

“Will you come here tomorrow?” Daichi asks. He stands, but stays behind the piano—Koushi hears the very gentle _click_ as he places the fall board back over the keys.

“Do you want me to?” Koushi asks in turn.

“I do. Very much.”

“Then I will.”

“Will you dance again?”

“If you play for me, again.”

“I will.”

Koushi laughs, feeling once more like a woodland creature under the influence of a full moon. “Sounds like a win-win arrangement to me.”

“Win-win?” Daichi repeats. “I see how it’s a win-win for _you—_ you get live music and an audience to practice for to boot. For free, I might add. What do I get?”

“Besides the knowledge that you’re helping out a soon-to-be-world-famous ballet dancer?” Koushi pauses, reaching down to hoist his bag over his shoulder. He steps back over the door, graceful and fluid, the weight of Daichi’s eyes at the small of his back, shirt damp and sticking to his skin. Koushi looks over his shoulder, eyes sultry. “Maybe I’ll let you look at my legs some more.”

He takes the delicious memory of Daichi’s reddening face with him on the walk home, the promise of _tomorrow_ sweet on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler alert they start dating after like a week and suga sits on daichi’s lap at the piano bench and they make out wooooooo
> 
> i'm sorry if anyone's an actual ballet dancer - i did some research, but let me know if there's something glaringly incorrect  
> and i'll fix it! 
> 
> five variants of dives and lazarus might not be the best to dance ballet to, and it might be too complex to be translated into something that can be played by a piano, but it’s so beautiful I don't really care its just one of those pieces that makes me sit and kinda wonder at how beautiful life can be 
> 
> my [tumblr](http://ohhotlamb.tumblr.com/)


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